


In a language that you can't read just yet

by noelia_g



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:45:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grantaire and Enjolras are accidental (or not quite) flatmates and everything is Cosette's fault (except blaming her is pointless, because, well, Cosette)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a language that you can't read just yet

**Author's Note:**

> This is my equivalent of taking this fandom and pairing out for a first date and finding out if we're right for each other. Hi new fandom, hi :)

Just for the record, Grantaire fully blames Cosette for all of this.

Except, he doesn’t, because you can’t feel resentful towards Cosette for more than five seconds and even then you feel like a total asshole. More of a total asshole than usual. Cosette is everything that’s good and sweet and rainbows and puppies. She’s a real life disney princess, except that she can fuck you up and you’ll be happy she did, she’s all sweetness and light with sharp steel at the core; she’s like candy with razorblades inside.

Wait, that’s bad, she’s not that. But yeah, the sweetness and steel. Like a cherry pie with a crowbar someone sent you when you’re locked up in a shithole of a jail cell, yeah, that’s better.

So, Grantaire can’t blame Cosette. He can, and will, blame Eponine and her magic boobs. 

But he gets ahead of himself and you need the full story, or at least a semblance of a beginning of one.

It all starts when Cosette breaks up with Marius. No one is more surprised than Marius himself, but it’s a shock to everyone else too. Except maybe Eponine. Or maybe especially to Eponine. 

One day Cosette and Marius are talking carpeting and china patterns and he’s starting to look for rings, and the next anyone knows she’s holed up back at her Dad’s place and Marius is back living with Courfeyrac. Or, rather, making like a blanket burrito of sadness and shock on the couch of the apartment he shares with Courfeyrac, watching Love Actually on loop.

And while usually Grantaire wouldn’t care (well, he would care, he just wouldn’t, you know, _care_ ), this puts a certain stop to his plans in moving in with Courf after Marius moves out to shack up with Cosette, which was planned for next month. Which also meant he gave his landlord notice and has already been replaced as of the first day next month. His stuff is in fucking boxes.

“I’m so sorry,” Cosette tells him, and he shrugs and shakes his head, saying it doesn’t matter. Cosette’s nose is all red and her eyes are suspiciously clear and well, it doesn’t matter she did the breaking up, it was still breaking up. And Eponine is glaring at him from the couch, daring him to say a word. “You could move in with us,” she offers.

“I don’t think your Dad would take kindly to it,” he tells her gently. 

“I meant with us,” she says, gesturing between her and Eponine.

“In the all-girls dorm?”

“We might...” Eponine starts and breaks off abruptly, biting her lip, eyes shifting to look at Cosette. They clearly hadn’t discussed this yet, not between the now famous make-out session, the great argument in the rain that followed, and the subsequent Marius-Cosette break-up of the decade. 

Cosette is blushing and her hands are twitching slightly in her lap and if Grantaire was in a better mood, he’d coo at them both pointedly, because they’re absolutely precious. As it is, he just wants to smash their pretty heads together. 

“It’s okay,” he tells them both and ignores the way Eponine tries to hide her relief. They’ve tried living together few years back and almost killed each other. Not in an angry murder way, more in a forgetting-to-buy-food, too-much-booze, bad-electrical-appliance-care style. “I have it all worked out,” he lies.

Cosette hugs him and promises to make it up to him and packs up a shitload of home-made muffins for him. He wonders when she had time to bake but doesn’t ask, because last time he asked about homemade bread in this house it got really ugly and he learned more things about Mr Valjean than he ever wanted to know.

So, he’s all stocked up on muffins, has most of his earthly possessions packed up in boxes, and needs to find a place to leave in six, no, wait, five days. 

Shouldn’t be a problem at all. Oh, wait.

*

The conundrum here is: how to find a place to live when he can’t quite tell anyone how desperate he is for a roof over his head, because that would get back to Cosette. Everything gets back to Cosette, she has spies everywhere.

He can’t move in with Courf as planned; even if they wanted to make it work, there’s simply no room if Marius is staying. Especially not with Jehan constantly over, and really, between the newlyweds displays and Marius’ romantic comedies binge Grantaire thinks he’d prefer the railway station bench (that’s plan F).

Feuilly offers, quietly and without fuss, but they don’t have room as it is, and with the completely different hours they keep (between Feuilly’s job and Grantaire’s late night escapades), it would probably be a disaster. Still, plan D.

Current plan B is Musichetta, who’d let him crash above Musain, but that’s a short term solution at best, _and_ Cosette would definitely find out. 

Three days before the end of the month he’s at Musain, having almost decided on the plan B for as short a time as possible and telling everyone he’s just waiting for his new place to be available while he actually places a fucking ad and hopes for a miracle (in the middle of the semester, highly unlikely). He’s staring glumly into his whiskey and for once not bothering Enjolras during the speech part of the evening. 

(Enjolras looks mildly surprised by this course of action, throwing suspicious glances Grantaire’s way when he pauses for breath and doesn’t meet with sharp comments.)

“Everything alright?” Combeferre asks, sliding into the booth next to Grantaire. He’s been sitting by Enjolras throughout the evening, as per usual, only getting up to get more coffee. He’s nursing a cup this time too, looking at Grantaire with some concern. “You’ve been quiet,” he prompts gently. Grantaire wonders if he’s been too obvious, or if it has been chalked up to his usual moods. A quick glance at Cosette, who’s arguing with Enjolras and Eponine over something and is clearly holding back a laugh, assures him no one but Combeferre is worried.

Except, maybe, amazingly, Enjolras, who glances at him again, still with some degree of suspicion. 

“Just a really long day,” Grantaire says, shrugging. “I have two deadlines coming up,” he adds noncommittally, something that usually meets with understanding and hardly any questions, except maybe about the medium or subject, if he’s talking to Feuilly or Jehan. Combeferre normally would make an understanding noise and drop the subject. 

“Where do you store your supplies now?” Combeferre asks instead and takes a sip of his coffee, like he hadn’t just busted Grantaire to the point where “Won’t get fooled again” should be playing in the background. Before Grantaire can come up with a good lie or at least a half-assed excuse, he nods and pushes his glasses up his nose decisively. “We have a spare room,” he says matter-of-factly, as good as an offer.

Grantaire shakes his head. “Your spare room is Enjolras’ office,” he points out.

Combeferre snorts. “The whole place is Enjolras’ office, including the kitchen and the bathroom.”

He’s not wrong about that, Grantaire had seen the stack of books by the toilet, including the Napoleon biography. Surprisingly, it still has all the pages. 

“I’m messy,” he says. “Paint everywhere. I forget to segregate laundry, drink the last of OJ and stick the carton back into the fridge. I’m not a morning person,” he adds. What he doesn’t say is: I drink a lot and often too much, I stumble back home in the small hour and not at all quietly, I seem to piss off Enjolras off by my very existence, and I really, really don’t believe in your crusade. 

He doesn’t say that, because he figures Combeferre knows, and because a tiny part of him hopes this might work out, at least for a while.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre says, shrugging the litany off. “You in?”

This can’t end well, but then again, when has anything?

“Yeah, sure,” he mutters and salutes Combeferre with his glass, grinning at yet another glare Enjolras casts in his direction. 

*

Combeferre informs him he can move in the very next day, but Grantaire prefers to give him more time to talk this over with Enjolras and ensure Grantaire won’t be kicked out the moment he walks in.

Combeferre snorts at that, biting back a wider grin. His mouth works over some words he opts to hold back. “Alright,” he says, voice tinged with amusement. Grantaire doesn’t know what he’s so happy about, he’s the one who’s going to have to convince Enjolras this isn’t a horrible idea.

But of course Combeferre has years of experience in persuading Enjolras, and Grantaire shouldn’t have doubted him. He gets a text next day a little after noon, telling him Courfeyrac and Marius are on the way to pick up him and his stuff. He doesn’t have all that much, and if not for the paintings one trip in Marius’ car would be enough. 

Combeferre must have been pretty damn convincing, because Enjolras’ office is all but bare, and that must have taken the better part of morning. All that’s left are the bookcases along the wall. 

“Do you mind?” Enjolras asks, his hand absently running along the edge of the shelf. “We couldn’t figure out where to put them,” he adds. There’s a hint of displeasure in the corner of his mouth, like he tasted something sour. Grantaire expected that, not even Combeferre is that persuasive.

“It’s fine,” he assures Enjolras. Few shelves have been thoughtfully emptied for him, so he can add his own books to the collection, and that shouldn’t bother him, excite him, that much; the thought of his books alongside Enjolras’, like they belong together. It would be impossible for anyone coming in here who isn’t them to tell where one collection begins and the other ends, he supposes. The thought shouldn’t be appealing, but there you are. “I’ll try not to spill anything on them,” he adds and he means it as a joke but causes a horrified expression on Enjolras’ face for a good few seconds before it turns into a look of admonishment at Grantaire’s grin.

“Courfeyrac ordered pizza,” is all Enjolras says, turning to walk out of the room. Grantaire follows, managing not to curse at the splendid start he’s making of this whole thing. 

“Shouldn’t I have done that? I mean, the societal custom is, I think, that the guy who needs help with moving is the one getting everyone pizza and beer.”

“Is it?” Enjolras says absently, either because he’s unaware of a societal custom of this kind (possible; if he were the one moving he probably could afford a moving van and someone to carry everything upstairs) or because he doesn’t care and is already thinking about something else (more likely). 

“Absolutely not,” Courfeyrac says. “You always get the weird one from that place,” he waves his hand vaguely, to match his extremely vague words. “But if you have some change, we need money for the tip,” he adds. 

By the time pizza gets there, so do Jehan and Joly. They’re short of a full set, but enough of them are gathered for Enjolras to start discussing the next project (really, to be honest he probably needs a set of two for that, or maybe a mirror or a particularly attentive-looking inanimate object of his choice), which is, surprisingly, a letter writing campaign, Grantaire shits you not.

Of course, since it’s Enjolras, the letter writing campaign turns into a letter writing _event_ , and that has the potential, in theory, to turn seriously disruptive and end up in a disaster. Not to mention the complete futility of letter writing campaigns in general.

Before he can think better of it, he finds himself saying this out loud, not mincing words. Enjolras doesn’t even pause for breath before launching into a tirade he _must_ have had prepared, no one is that fucking eloquent when caught unawares. His tone is sharp, impatient, like he wants to get the argument over with quickly this time, point out that Grantaire is wrong wrong wrong and move on. It’s a bit insulting and Grantaire is more than ready to tell him about all the wrongness on Enjolras’ side of the discussion, but he notices that Courf is fishing out a twenty from his wallet and handing it over to Combeferre.

Enjolras pauses mid-sentence, which is an uncanny event in its own right, and glares. “What is this?”

Courfeyrac grins. “I made a mistake of assuming you’d manage to be civil for at least one day. I’ve learned my lesson.”

Grantaire snorts, because that’s really a sucker’s bet. Enjolras, however, stares at Courfeyrac for an uncomfortably long moment before turning his gaze, unflinching, thoughtful, to Grantaire. “Are we,” he starts and pauses, a hint of uncertainty in his voice, and Grantaire is floored because Enjolras is never uncertain, least alone when it comes to anything Grantaire. His ire is usually steady and sure, and well aimed. Thankfully, the moment passes quickly, and Enjolras seems to swallow the rest of the sentence and then forget about it, back to the subject of letters and meetings like nothing has happened.

Later in the evening, when they’re cleaning up and Combeferre is tearing up the pizza boxes to make them fit the trash can and Grantaire is washing the last few glasses, he can’t help but ask: “What did you say to Enjolras? To make him agree to my moving in?”

He hadn’t quite counted out blackmail, because if anyone has dirt on Enjolras, that would be Combeferre, who’d known him forever. And who now once again is giving Grantaire a level look. “Didn’t have to say anything. He knew you were looking for a place,” he says, and something about the way he says it bothers Grantaire, but he can’t quite pinpoint the reason.

*

Living with Enjolras, he decides next morning, is going to be a special kind of hell.

He should have seen this coming, really, but he had other pressing concerns, like the possibility of finding himself homeless. And he concentrated on dangers such as Enjolras throwing him out during an argument, or possibly braining him with a hardback copy of the collected works of Rousseau at some point. 

He really was worried about all the wrong things; he should have been concerned about heart attacks at the sight of Enjolras, clad only in his boxers, drinking coffee and reading at the kitchen counter. 

“There’s fresh coffee,” he informs Grantaire absently, without looking up. That’s a good thing, because Grantaire is pretty sure he looks particularly unattractive, gaping like a dense fish. “Your choices of breakfast are probably limited to the leftover cold pizza, it might have been my turn for grocery shopping,” he adds, like that explains everything. 

It probably does, but it takes Grantaire a moment to catch up, because one, his brain seems to be missing and two, Enjolras’ tone is not apologetic or sheepish to match the words, just informing. 

“Leftover cold pizza it is,” he nods and helps himself to a slice, filling a mug with hot coffee. “Where’s Combeferre?” he asks around a mouthful. 

“8 am class. He has them most days, really.”

“I’m surprised you don’t.”

Enjolras shrugs, turning a page. “I do. Today’s has been cancelled,” he adds, in a tone that could be described as mournful. Only Enjolras, honestly. He’s probably trying to make up for the lost time by reading ahead, like the overachiever he is, and Grantaire loathes to disturb him...

Oh, who is he kidding, when has that ever stopped him. “Combeferre didn’t discuss rent,” he says. And Grantaire didn’t want to raise the subject with him, for the fear of hearing he doesn’t need to worry about it.

Combeferre, after all, is a good friend and a kind soul, and he might try to be kind in this. Enjolras, thank heavens, can be counted on to be unflinching (if, in some choice matters, regretfully idealistic). 

The place’s rent must be more than Grantaire can afford, even the third he’ll be paying, but he has some saved up, he can make do temporarily, while he’s looking for something else. 

Enjolras puts down his book then, wrapping both his hands around the mug as he leans back, legs stretched out for support as he balances the chair on its back legs. His gaze slides over Grantaire’s face like he’s cataloguing him and Grantaire hopes he’s not found lacking. 

The moment of pause before Enjolras speaks grants him the opportunity of looking right back, taking the time to do some mental cataloguing of his own. His mother always told him it was rude to stare, but he never took notice of her other warnings, why this should be an exception? Especially when it comes to Enjolras, as watching him could probably be excused as research, for Grantaire supposes even the drawing anatomy textbooks he got as a boy wouldn’t provide him with a better example of human form.

So, he’s looked before, he’s drawn and painted and traced the curves and sharp angles with his pencil and his paintbrush. Right now, he just takes stock of the differences, of the new data; the small scar on Enjolras’ shoulder, the fact that he is badly in need of a haircut, the smudge of ink on his thumb. 

“We’ve paid for the next month already,” Enjolras says flatly, bringing Grantaire back to the topic at hand, back to Earth. “There’s no point in splitting rent if you’re here temporarily,” he offers, then raises his hand when Grantaire looks like he’ll protest. “If you stay longer than the month, we’ll charge you, don’t worry. For now, well, we didn’t make Courfeyrac pay, when he was crashing on the couch every other day.”

That was when Marius and Cosette just started dating and no one could be around them for more than few hours for fear of rotting their teeth on all the sweetness, Grantaire remembers because Eponine used to hide out in his apartment and drank him out of all the good booze. “He was crashing on the _couch_ ,” he points out.

“Probably more comfortable than your excuse for a bed,” Enjolras shoots back. Grantaire has to remind himself it’s not meant to be a shot aimed at him, and his bed actually is little more than a glorified mattress. 

“Alright, I’m gonna take advantage of your hospitality for the month. After that, no charity.” He’ll have enough time to find a more reasonable lodging, or, if that proves to be impossible, a second job. 

Enjolras snorts and salutes him with his cup. “Grantaire, when have you ever known me to be charitable?” he asks, almost mournfully, the sharpness of his tone for once directed at himself. It’s not an entirely unheard of; in some areas Enjolras is his own harshest critic, but the note of regret is rather new.

It’s also rather unbearable. “You have your moments,” Grantaire assures him, because as much as he’s the first to jump in and try and take apart Enjolras and his ideals, he doesn’t like to hear anyone else criticise him, not even the man himself. 

He realises his issues, thanks, and he’s probably not going to do anything about them, judging by the available data, so shove it. 

*

They’ve met the freshman year, few weeks into the first semester, on one of the last hot days of the year. There was a petition (there’s always a petition, or a protest, or a cause) and Grantaire can’t even remember what it was about.

He’s signed the thing, of course, when Jehan (he didn’t know Jehan then, he just saw that really handsome blonde guy in a flurry of patterns that should clash and yet looked flattering) handed him a clipboard and started explaining, the obviously practiced spiel given his own poetic spin. 

“Yeah, sure,” Grantaire said and signed his name with a flourish, waving off the speech. He’s signed two other petitions that day, one was something about pandas and the other he had no slightest idea. He also took every flyer handed to him on the quad, on principle, because he’s done this kind of jobs before, menial and thankless and unbearable in the rain and worse in the heat, so he made it a point to take every flyer, sign every petition. Sometimes the causes were completely contradictory but no one seemed to care, least of all people who got one more signature.

Well, no one cared until now. “You didn’t even read it,” someone said accusingly. 

Grantaire shrugged. “I don’t read all the terms and conditions either, so if this was a deal about my soul, I’m pretty sure it’s worthless, considering the number of times I’ve already signed it over,” he said before he even handed back the clipboard and looked up with a grin. 

It faded away right off his face, because jesus fuck, the way the guy looked was _ridiculous_. 

He likes to say, to Eponine mostly, that this was a love at first sight moment, lightning strike for all his sins. It wasn’t, he hadn’t fallen in love with Enjolras until later, until at least the first meeting at Musain, or maybe the second (respectively their first argument and the first time Grantaire told Enjolras he was “full of bullshit, but please, convince me anyway, _convince me_ ”, and he meant it, even though Enjolras thought he was being mocked).

It wasn’t love at first sight and if he has to be completely honest with himself (and he usually is, it’s much easier), it wasn’t lust at first sight either. He hadn’t thought about sex with the Apollo incarnated currently fuming on the sidewalk, that hadn’t even crossed his mind. He did briefly consider asking the guy if he could paint him, but those kinds of questions weren’t usually welcomed from total strangers.

And besides, he could paint that face from memory, he already knew. His fingers yearned for the brush and he hoped he’d capture at least a shard of the sharp annoyance in those blue eyes. 

“You’d sign your name under the cause you know nothing of?”

“Sure,” Grantaire shrugged again, holding a laugh at the appalled look it got him. “You have any other lost causes? Sign my name under all of them,” he said, before helpfully supplying, “It’s Grantaire.”

He watched with amazement as the irritation fought with good manners on the man’s face, before the latter won, clearly ingrained at a young age and never quite shed. “Enjolras.”

Grantaire nodded. “So, Enjolras,” he said, testing out the name on his tongue and finding he liked it. “Got any other lost causes?” he asked conversationally.

Yeah, if only he knew.

*

The best day to paint, Grantaire finds out quickly, is Friday. Enjolras has classes back to back, because he seems to be taking _everything_ , and it’s Combeferre’s day to volunteer at the shelter, which apparently lately turned into coffee with the mysterious girl who works there and whom neither of them had met because, direct quote, “she needs to be eased into the crazy gently.”

She works at the shelter and volunteers all over the place, she’s going to fit right in, if you ask Grantaire.

But he can’t blame Combeferre for wanting some alone time, especially since it means he has Fridays to himself at the apartment, and can take over the coffee table and the kitchen counter, can use the splendid light in the living room, leave the balcony doors and all the windows open, put on the music without getting tangled in the headphones cords. 

It’s his second Friday here, and the search for a new place is going nowhere; the places he looked at are either way out of his price range or look like something or someone died in there and is still hidden under the floor, and they smell the same. Enjolras drove him to see one yesterday and refused to even walk in, then took a half an hour long shower after getting home. It wasn’t really an overreaction.

Then there are the ones where someone is looking for a flatmate, and so far his choices are a possible drug dealer and a girl who has more knives than Enjolras has books. Grantaire has to admit he was rather taken by her. 

He also has to admit he’s not looking all that hard. He’s got a designing gig through a friend of a friend and he could reasonably afford one third of the rent _and_ his share of groceries. Also, Combeferre is an ideal, considerate flatmate and as it turns out, living with Enjolras, apart from the whole thing where he apparently has an aversion to buttons and something against shoes around the house, is remarkably easy. 

They argue like they always do, but somehow the apartment has been by unspoken agreement declared a peace zone. Sometimes they’ll yell at each other at the meeting and Grantaire will leave in a huff, or Enjolras will tell him in no uncertain terms to get out, and one of them will spend the evening sulking behind closed doors (or, in Grantaire’s case, out drinking), but they’ll be civil in the morning, at the kitchen counter. Enjolras won’t forget to make extra coffee for Grantaire and Grantaire will sneak out to buy pastries in lieu of an apology.

Somehow, amazingly, they may be fighting _less_ now. 

He hums to himself as he paints and with the headphones on and the music blaring would probably miss the doors opening, but with the windows open there is a strong draft, sending some of the newspapers he covered the floors with flying.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says and looks around, taking everything in. He’s surprised enough that he doesn’t close the doors immediately, and the next gust of wind ruffles more papers. It takes Grantaire a second too long to put away the brush and a blob of paint falls onto the carpet. 

“Fuck, sorry, I,” he starts and shakes his head, kneeling down to clean up the mess as best as he can. Enjolras closes the doors.

“My fault, I startled you,” Enjolras mutters, dropping his bag and taking a few steps in. He studies the painting Grantaire’s been working on and Grantaire concentrates on getting the stain out even harder; he doesn’t want to, can’t watch Enjolras face when he looks at the painting. He usually doesn’t give a shit if people like his paintings or not, but it’s _Enjolras_ , if anyone’s opinion matters, it’s his. “Leave it,” Enjolras says and it takes Grantaire a moment to get he’s speaking about the carpet. “It was ugly enough to begin with.”

It’s a rather accurate assessment, the pattern is terrible, but the carpet’s saving grace is its softness, making it a coveted spot for anyone who didn’t manage to call dibs on the couch during the movie nights.

“What are you doing here anyway?” he asks, getting up, and winces at the slightly accusatory tone. “I mean...”

“I know. The class let out early and I have a meeting with Lamarque in two hours, and then there’s the meeting at Musain. I’ve figured I’ll get home and eat something now.”

“Would have more luck grabbing lunch in the cafeteria,” Grantaire tells him, gathering up his supplies. Enjolras regards him thoughtfully, working the statement over.

“It was my turn for groceries, wasn’t it.”

Grantaire huffs out a laugh. “Close, but it’s not until tomorrow. I’m sure you have it on a to-do list somewhere. No, Eponine and Cosette visited yesterday and polished off most of the sweets, and Combeferre finished off the rest of food while pulling the all-nighter on his essay.”

“Right. Have you eaten?” he asks and Grantaire has to turn and look at him. He understands the question, he’s just not sure he’s grasped the implications. “I don’t want to drag you away from your work,” Enjolras says quickly. “I’ve distracted you enough.”

“No, it’s fine. Yeah, I could eat,” he mutters. “Let me just put these away,” he says, gesturing widely to the paints and brushes. 

“And if I may make a suggestion, maybe put on a shirt,” Enjolras mutters. 

Grantaire doesn’t make a comment about Enjolras of all people having no room to talk against half-nakedness at home, but instead he glances down at the old jeans he usually wears when painting and the specks of paint on his forearms and a smudge on his stomach and nods. “Shoes and a change of pants would be another great idea. Thanks, that’s why you’re the brains of the operation, I suppose.”

As he’s talking, he bends down to pick up the shirt he’s discarded at some point, tossing it over his shoulder now. He grins at Enjolras, who seems distracted, turning his keys in his fingers impatiently. “I’ll be just a minute,” Grantaire assures him and heads to his room to find more appropriate clothes.

When he gets back, Enjolras is studying the painting again. Grantaire runs his hand through his hair and then down his face, closing his eyes and breathing in and out before he steps further into the living room. “We going?” he asks, and Enjolras’ gaze slides to him, a little unfocused for a second.

Grantaire is quite apt at recognising some of Enjolras’ emotions: Anger and irritation and exasperation are easy and familiar. Revolutionary fervor is an old friend. Disappointment and disgust have a tendency to come over quite clear. But there are still some expressions that are inscrutable, and that’s the look in Enjolras’ eyes right now; the slightly clouded gaze slowly focusing on him. 

“It’s unfinished,” he says quickly, wanting to cut off whatever Enjolras might be about to say. He’s not prepared for explaining the painting yet, least of all to Enjolras; it’s too close to being inspired by the man, by an old speech and a turn of phrase that got stuck in Grantaire’s mind, turning and twisting for months, gaining deep roots. 

Enjolras nods and his expression changes into something that worries Grantaire even more, because it’s like he understands, like he’s looked into Grantaire and knows not to ask. The very thought is petrifying. “Let’s go. How do you feel about...”

“We’re going to end up at that vegan place anyway,” Grantaire says mournfully. “Don’t promise things you won’t deliver.”

There’s a smile in the corner of Enjolras’ mouth as he nods solemnly. “Alright.”

There’s something, Grantaire thinks, he’s missing here.

*

Eponine and Cosette accost him after the meeting. Well, the official part of the meeting, at least. The unofficial part is going on quite well; Marius is finally out of his shell-shocked sulk and laughing at something Courf said, Jehan and Combeferre are discussing a book they’ve both read and now Jehan is trying to get everyone else to read it as well, and Enjolras and Joly are deep into a discussion about some proposed healthcare bill. 

Grantaire went to get a drink and that was a rookie mistake; the girls have apparently been waiting to get him away from the group.

“So, Enjolras seems in a good mood,” Eponine says without a preamble. “Are you guys fucking yet?”

“Jesus, ‘Ponine,” he mutters, glancing quickly at Cosette. The girl just looks at him with her gigantic eyes for a long moment.

“It’s okay, I know about fucking,” she tells him seriously. “I’ve been given the birds and bees talk when I was twelve.”

Grantaire is about to roll his eyes at her, but stops, morbidly curious. “By your father?”

“By the nuns,” she says and sometimes Grantaire swears, he’s sure Cosette is playing an incredibly long, elaborate joke on all of them. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, downing half of the glass the bartender places in front of him. He gestures for another, he has a feeling he’ll need it. 

He’s not wrong. “No, that was the whole other conversation,” Cosette says before adding thoughtfully. “Or maybe the same one, I mean, the whole married to the Lord thing...” she grins, taking pity at him, and pats his shoulder. “But yes, we’re at home to the knowledge of fucking. Even more so since...” she waves in Eponine’s direction and shit, it’s what he suspected but doesn’t need to hear about, thank you very much.

“Poor Grantaire, lesbian sex is so icky,” Eponine tells him and he flips her off. She grins right back. “But, back to the kind of gay sex you enjoy, you, Enjolras, happening yet?”

“I’ll take things that are not even in the realm of possibility for two hundred, Alex,” he says pointedly and ignores the look Cosette is giving him. “Why would you even think that?”

“You argue less and Enjolras is in a particularly good mood today. I haven’t heard any big Human Rights news today, so the other option was that he is finally getting laid,” Eponine shrugs. “I also wanted to ask the fundamental question; boxers or briefs?”

“Boxers,” Grantaire says automatically, at the same time Cosette does. He stares at her.

“What, it’s obvious,” she says, smiling beatifically. 

“I can’t with you,” he tells her and walks back to the table, shaking his head. People moved in his absence, splitting into smaller groups to talk more easily, and there’s a space next to Enjolras that either has been left for him or is just a fantastical coincidence. 

He doesn’t believe in coincidences and his friends are a bunch of fucking meddlers who should know better. He slides into the empty space anyway, his thigh pressed close against Enjolras’. In such close proximity his fingers itch again.

Enjolras glances to the side at the contact and then shifts, not pausing in his meticulous enumeration of everything that is wrong with the reform. He leans back in his seat, like he’s including Grantaire in the conversation. 

Frankly, it seems like a challenge.

*

The first argument they had (because Grantaire isn’t counting the one on the sidewalk, this was just a friendly exchange of shots, nothing close to how vicious their arguments would get) was about the Electoral College.

It was at the first meeting of Les Amis that Grantaire has attended and the first he almost got thrown out of. 

And the thing is, the truly fucked up thing is, he’s pretty sure he fell in love with Enjolras then, in the middle of the angry spiel about how Grantaire’s view (not his _actual_ view, but the one that seemed most fun to offer to Enjolras at the time) was inherently flawed and just _wrong_. 

And while Enjolras in the midst of a passionate speech was incredibly beautiful, what got to Grantaire, what really got to him, was the way he seemed to look into Grantaire’s heart and mind and find him lacking, inherently flawed and just wrong, and still fight, not only with him but also for him, for his opinion, for his vote, for his belief. 

And then at the end of the meeting, his eyes still glowing with annoyance, Enjolras turned to Grantaire and informed him that “we’re meeting every Wednesday and Friday,” like he expected Grantaire to come regularly. 

Grantaire hasn’t missed a meeting since.

*

Grantaire doesn’t get home until 5 am, because Bahorel insisted they go check out the new bar that opened two streets away from Musain, and no one comes back from drinking with Bahorel before it’s getting light outside and the birds are chirping like motherfuckers.

He tries to sneak in as quietly possible, grimacing at the noise his keys make when he drops them into the bowl in the hall. And then he proceeds to yelp loudly when he sees someone sitting at the couch in the grey light of almost-dawn.

Enjolras grimaces and rubs the back of his hand over his eye. “What time is it?”

“Late. Or early, take your pick. Why the fuck are you up?”

“I wasn’t. Must have fallen asleep reading,” he mutters. He does look like he’s just woken up, probably by Grantaire making all that noise when he fiddled with the keys and stumbled over his boots, but why on earth would he fall asleep reading on the couch when he has a perfectly good bed just behind the wall is beyond Grantaire.

And he’d call bullshit, especially since the book in question is closed and on the coffee table, and Enjolras’ reading glasses are folded neatly on top of it, but that, and the blanket pooled around Enjolras means that Combeferre must have been up and frustrated by his flatmate’s habits.

Enjolras yawns and Grantaire gives up and gives in; he’s too drunk for this. Or maybe not drunk enough. 

“Want some water?” he asks, heading for the kitchen. Enjolras disentangles himself from the blanket and follows after him, squinting at the clock. 

“Might as well start the coffee,” he says with a sigh. “I have to be up in half an hour anyway.”

“No, you _have to_ be up in an hour and a half, and to be honest, you don’t really have to be up at all, it’s Saturday,” Grantaire mutters. “But I realise chances of convincing you to take a day off once in a while are slim, bordering on non-existant.”

“My God, it’s as if you knew me,” Enjolras says with mock-astonishment. Grantaire squints at him suspiciously, because Eponine and Cosette were right, he is in a rather good mood. “But I’m sure there is one or two things that could convince me staying in on a Saturday is not the worst idea.”

Grantaire gives him a look. “Name one.”

“You want coffee?” Enjolras asks, taking the mugs out of the cupboard. And it’s not because he’s stumped for an answer, Grantaire can see that, it’s because he damn well knows the reasons and is not sharing with the class. And if the quick look he sends Grantaire’s way is any indication, he expects to be called on that.

Grantaire won’t give him the satisfaction, because he’s a contrary bastard like that.

“I’m still drunk,” he confides instead, because reminding Enjolras of his habits is a splendid way to go, well done Grantaire.

“Bigger mug, then,” Enjolras mutters and there’s only the slightest note of disapproval in his tone. 

“You _are_ in a good mood,” he mutters, sounding slightly accusatory to his own ears. Enjolras just shrugs, but his lips are curling in a beginnings of a smile and Grantaire gets it. “You got the assistantship,” he says, more of a statement than a question and gets a sharp nod in return, the smile blooming fully now.

He knows the meeting with Lamarque was supposed to be preliminary, just an inquiry into the matter, but Enjolras has been nervous about it. He’s been anxious enough that they didn’t even end up in the vegan place for lunch, but he let Grantaire maneuver him into getting a burger (still a vegetarian one, but you can’t win everything). He’s been nervous enough to let it show around Grantaire, and that was serious.

“Congratulations, that’s great. You should have told everyone at the meeting, we would have celebrated,” he adds, still grinning.

Enjolras places the mug in front of him, coffee slushing against the sides. “I wanted to tell you first,” he says, so serious and matter-of-fact Grantaire doesn’t get the implication of his words for a few seconds.

“That’s why you stayed up?” he asks, and it doesn’t make sense. None. He’s probably drunker than he thought and maybe in a ditch somewhere, it’s a possibility, because the world is upside down suddenly. “Why?”

“I wanted to tell you first,” Enjolras repeats stubbornly, like it’s supposed to make sense the second time, like Grantaire is being the unreasonable one here. “Grantaire...”

He shakes his head. “But you don’t even like me all that much,” he points out.

There’s a flicker of confusion and disbelief in Enjolras’ eyes and then Grantaire has the dubious pleasure of seeing him completely freeze in shock. 

There’s a sound not unlike someone slapping his hand over his own face somewhere behind Grantaire and he welcomes the opportunity to tear his gaze away from Enjolras, because it hurts to look at him now, and the painful shock in his eyes, at the way he’s placed his hand over his ribs like he’s been punched there.

Combeferre is standing in the doorway to his bedroom, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No. No way, I’m going back to sleep,” he mutters irritably, half turning away before he rethinks and makes his way to the kitchen, stealing Enjolras’ coffee. “I’m taking this though. I don’t...” he stops abruptly and heads out, still shaking his head.

So, the pieces are falling together for Grantaire, but the emerging picture looks nothing like it should. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says again, the name sounding like it has been wrenched from him painfully. 

“I need to,” he says, not looking at Enjolras, taking great pains not to look at Enjolras. “I need to not be here,” he informs the room at large (not Enjolras, because he’s not looking at him, can’t, for the fear of completely breaking down at his feet because jesus fucking christ what is even going on) and flees the apartment.

He doesn’t get far, partly because he didn’t put his shoes back on, and partly because it’s barely after five am and his choices (all bad ones) would be back to the bar, or to Eponine’s or Courf’s, and, well, he doesn’t have his shoes on and he doesn’t want to have to explain.

The window on the far end of the corridor allows the access to the fire escape, however, and he swings his legs over the windowsill. It’s his favourite place to sneak out for a smoke, in the rare times he feels like he needs it, because Combeferre hates the smell of cigarettes, even if he never says it.

Enjolras finds him five minutes later, holding Grantaire’s shoes and a sweater that isn’t his. He pushes it all at Grantaire and sits down next to him in silence.

Grantaire snorts a laugh, because of all the moments for Enjolras to start being thoughtful, really.

“You are an idiot,” he tells Enjolras, who nods, closing his eyes with a sigh.

“I know. I’m sorry, I thought you might be amenable to...” he shakes his head at himself and Grantaire has a sinking feeling that he really fucked up and also, fuck, does Enjolras not realise? “I won’t...”

“Shut up,” he says, gritting his teeth and leaning forward, close enough that he can feel Enjolras’ breath on his face. “Enjolras, how long?”

“I don’t know. A long time,” Enjolras admits, looking wrecked about it. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” he adds flatly, stiffly. He’s already withdrawing, and Grantaire knows he needs to act fast now, but he can’t help the one last thing.

“Technically, you didn’t say anything yet,” he points out, laughter bubbling up in him. He feels drunk, more than he’s been. “Enjolras,” he says, drawing the name out. “You really are an idiot,” he muses. It’s unexpectedly fantastic.

“I really don’t have to,” Enjolras starts, making a move to draw away but Grantaire doesn’t let him, catches his hand and pulls him in again, his thumb gently caressing over the inside of Enjolras’ wrist, feeling the rapidly speeding up pulse. “R,” Enjolras says, a warning and a plea at the same time.

“You are an idiot, because you’re letting me talk shit while you could, nay, should, be kissing me already,” Grantaire tells him mournfully. “Honestly, this whole thing is poorly pla-” he doesn’t get to finish, because Enjolras _is_ kissing him then, crowding into his space. 

He’s actually pissed off, Grantaire thinks absently, and that is unfortunate, because if this is the result, the way Enjolras sets to completely _wreck_ Grantaire with his mouth and teeth and hands, well, if that is the case then Grantaire is going to have to work even harder in his constant effort to annoy Enjolras.

That’ll be later, though, because right now he can’t really breathe let alone talk, and he draws back just to drop his head onto Enjolras’ shoulder and let the other man tangle his fingers in Grantaire’s hair. “I hate you so much sometimes,” Enjolras mutters, belying his statement with the gentle kiss he places on Grantaire’s forehead.

“I know,” Grantaire mutters smugly.


End file.
